


you and i

by erlkoenig



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Jon Snow and his complicated relationship with emotions, M/M, Not All Men? You're right, Post-Finale, Spoilers for Season 8, Tormund Giantsbane would never hurt anyone he didn't think deserved it, also I like the way Tormund looks in the show as opposed to book!Tormund, pre-slash theoretically, there's JonMund and you don't need to squint too hard, which is a very loose and fluid concept to him but here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-09 22:45:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18926500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erlkoenig/pseuds/erlkoenig
Summary: He's not surprised to see Tormund here, after all that's happened. He tries not to dwell on that.





	you and i

**Author's Note:**

> So that finale, eh? Never thought JonMund would be canon but here we are. 
> 
> Title taken from TS Eliot's _The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock_

Nothing is the same, everything has changed.

_ Well no shit, what did you really expect? _ His thoughts sound so familiar, but he knows it is not his own voice, his head-voice. He tries not to dwell on it too long, takes another long drink of wine that’s more vinegar than anything and passes over the skin. Wraps his hands around his elbows and counts each pace in his head until the voice sounds more like his own.

_ One, two, three, four, five, six. Turn. One, two, three. _

Wildlings at The Wall. Wildlings at Castle Black. It seems like a lifetime ago and like only a few days at the same time, all the brothers would call to arms, there would be blood in the snow. Wildlings at The Wall, he shakes his head at the thought, wants to almost laugh about it, how simple it is now. Wildlings at Castle Black, only a season before the notion would have been absurd. 

He shivers, and there’s a warm hand on his shoulder, cutting through the cold that has seeped into his bones long before he passed into the North.  _ Not the True North,  _ and ah, that’s no his voice either, but it’s more welcome than the other not-stranger that’s crept behind his eyes and settled behind his teeth.

“Sit, you’re makin’ me crazy boy.”

“I’ve done nothing but sit for weeks.” He says, tries to pull away and finds he’s leaning just a little bit more into that touch. Just a little, but the icy water he’s been moving through for months now lessens its grip on him, just a little.

He’s not surprised to see him here. He tells him as much.

Tormund’s eyebrows raise, nearly disappear into that wild hair and he snorts, spits. “The dog missed you.”

“Ghost?” There’s a whine from just behind him, but he doesn’t turn to look. “How did you know I’d be back?”

“They don’t call me Speaks-to-Gods for naught, little crow.”

“They don’t call you that.”

Tormund’s eyebrows come together now, his mouth set in a thin, hard line. “Yes they do.”

“I’ve never heard it.”

“Yes you have.”

He’s warmer now, he doesn’t know how or why but there’s a selfish part of him that’s grateful for it. “If you say so.” Takes the wine skin from Tormund and takes another drink. It’s not the wine that warms him, and he doesn’t dwell on that either. 

“I does say so.” And that’s the end of this argument, he knows as Tormund takes his hand away, and he would call him any number of things to have that hand back.

He doesn’t. He clutches at his arms again and restarts his counting.

“You gonna tell me what happened?”

“Haven’t you heard?”  _ Four, five, six, turn. _

“Maybe.” Tormund slurps the wine, does it because he knows the sound of it bothers Jon, does it because anything is better than that infernal pacing but Jon keeps his count, pivots and starts all over again, lips moving silently with each step. “Maybe not. I’d hear it from you because then I’d hear the truth. You’re a piss-poor liar, Jon Snow, as far I’ve ever seen.”

_ About that,  _ and he doesn’t know whose voice it is this time, bites into his tongue until it aches. Tormund wouldn’t care, none of it would matter to him,  _ you want me to kneel and call you yer grace every time you fart _ , and he does laugh. It’s a half-choked sound, a cough stuck in his raw throat, but it’s something.

“I killed her, Tormund.” It comes out in a rush, in a whisper that’s as loud as a scream. He stops now, one foot just in front of the other, nails digging into his arms through his coat, through his shirt. Meets Tormund’s eyes and waits for whatever the wildling has to say about it.

“The white-haired b -- girl?” Tormund’s eyes widen just a bit and he huffs a sigh, holds out the wineskin again. “Well then, that’s somethin’ alright. Why’d you do it?”

“Does it matter?” He snaps, doesn’t take the skin, doesn’t even look at it.

Tormund pretends to consider it, strokes his beard and scrunches up his nose like he’s thinking, but Jon knows before he speaks what he’s going to say.

“Not a fuckin’ bit. I’m sure you had your reasons.”

“It’s not right.”

“If you’re wanting me to condemn you, crow, you’re wastin’ your time and mine.”

“I loved her.” It’s hoarse, bloody, ragged, each word forced through clenched teeth and Jon wants to scream it until anything makes sense. “She was my queen. I told her -- I told her, now and always. I killed her.”

The fire crackles in the hearth, dry logs splitting, consumed, and he can’t look at it.

It sounds like burning bones.

“Did you love her, or the idea of her?”

Something in him breaks. It sounds like scorched bone and sinew, cracks and falls to the stones and Tormund is on his feet but his hands do not reach for a weapon, do not reach for anything but Jon. Palms flat against Jon’s chest, not pushing, not yielding, just a weight there keeping him less than an arm’s reach away.

He could easily put his hands around that neck and squeeze, could throw a punch and feel it land. Tormund doesn’t look at him in anger, he’s waiting for an answer.

“How could you ask me that?” Jon’s voice cracks, and by all the gods that have never listened to him, he wants to cry but he can’t. “How can you look me in the eye and ask me that?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“She was my queen!”

“Mance was my king, and by all rights I should’ve split your belly open even for the mercy you gave him. Things change, boy. People change. You, me, the whole fuckin’ world, you can’t expect it to stay the same just ‘cause you want it to.”

Jon sneers because it hurts. Every word lands like a blow, bruising fingers trying to tear him up and out of the watery pit of pity he’s been drowning himself in since --  _ since --  _ and he fights it, fights back, because he’s stubborn. Because he’s Ned Stark’s bastard, his father’s son, twice and stubborn and half as stupid no matter what some dusty old book says otherwise.

“You a maester now, Wildling?” Spits the words like they’re poison, curls his lip and gods it feels good to  _ feel _ something. “Gonna philosophise at me now?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever used that word, Snow.” And Tormund chuckles in spite of all of this, a laugh that moves his whole body and splits his face into a crooked grin. “Don’t mean I dunno what it means, but I never used it. I’m not here to preach to you, boy. I’m here to take you home.”

Home. He takes a step back, just one, he’s lost in that pit again, the water closing in over his head. “This is my home now. I’m taking the black, for good this time. It was decided.”

“By who?”

“The King -- the King’s Hand.” He looks away.

Tormund inclines his head and there’s a smirk playing at his lips. “Oh? The hand you say?” There’s no deference when Tormund speaks, none of the politics he’s grown used to, the politics he raised with, and with every word, every growling syllable, Jon feels like he can breathe. “Well, if the  _ hand _ says it, though funny, I never known a hand to have a mouth. How’s it speak?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not the one who’s bein’ stupid here.” Tormund takes another slurping drink, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and he’s grinning again. “Where I’m from, a man wants t’ speak he does so for himself, he don’t use any hands except to make a point.” He gestures, exaggerated, and Jon can feel a smile coming, can feel tears burning at the corners of his eyes.

Maybe Tormund sees, and maybe that’s why his face softens just a little. Maybe Tormund sees, and that’s why his hands go to Jon’s shoulders again, so warm they might as well be against his bare skin. Maybe Tormund sees, and maybe that’s why he steps forward where Jon had moved away, closes the distance between them and rests his forehead against Jon’s.

“Can I tell y’ a secret, Jon Snow?”

“Of course.” It’s a murmur, and he can smell the sour wine on Tormund’s breath. “You can tell me anything.”

“I don’t give two shits about southern kings and queens. I, for sure, don’t give a blistered, bloody  _ fuck _ about no southern hands neither.”

Jon laughs. He laughs until tears slip from his eyes, spilling hot down his face. He laughs until his face aches from it, until his teeth are cold, until there’s a stitch in his ribs and he has to lean his weight against Tormund to keep from falling. Laughs until his mind cracks enough that he thinks Tormund’s hands move to his back, rubbing warm, soothing circles there, lips puffing hot air against the curve of his ear, cooing nonsense at him until the laughter stops.

His eyes are puffy, swollen, his voice is caught against the jagged glass in his throat. Salt burns tear-stains on his face and the muscles in his face hurt from it all.

“Wasn’t that funny.” Tormund says softly, his hands still resting against his back.

“It’s all funny.” Jon says and it’s nonsense and the truth all at once. The voice that whispers in his head sounds like his own, and maybe he’s laughing again, maybe he’s screaming, either way he’s pulled his head above the water and gasping desperately for air.

He can feel Tormund shrug, “If y’ say so.”

“I do.” Jon says, buries his face into the furs that cover Tormund’s shoulder, wraps his arms around him until his fingers press bruises through the thick clothes, a constellation blooming pink and lavender across Tormund’s back but the wildling -- the man -- never pulls away, never complains. They ride out this storm together, clutching at each other, until Jon can catch his breath again. Even then, he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t want to pull away from him.

There are a thousand things he wants, and none of them are what he deserves, not a one of them.

_ You’ve got the north in you, boy. The real North. _ It’s not Tormund’s voice in his head, not the Hand of the King’s, not his own. He thinks, maybe, it might be his father’s, that distinguished drawl. Not Rhaegar Targaryen, whoever he might have been, but his  _ father _ , however much that word may mean.

“I want to go home.” Jon closes his eyes, whispers his secret against Tormund’s shoulder, feels those hands pull him a little closer.

“Aye, my little crow.” It’s a coo, the soft murmur of some morning bird. “Let’s get you home.”

“I can never go back. If I leave,” He keeps his eyes shut tight. “I can never come back if I leave this time.”

The silence falls between them. It doesn’t care how close they are pressed against each other, doesn’t care that Jon can feel the rise and fall of Tormund’s chest. Can feel the steady, strong,  _ thud-thud-thud _ of the other man’s heart against both their ribs. It settles over them like a blanket, something warm, something that comforts, something that knows the end without either of them having to put it to words.

“Is that such a bad thing?” Tormund asks, and it’s meant to be light-hearted, but there’s a weight to it that neither of them want to point out. The silence falls again, an answer, but Jon moves his head, daring, not caring. Presses his forehead against the bit of skin that he can find, the pulse-point racing against his skull, fluttering over his eyelids, face to throat. “Besides, your dog misses you.”

Another whine, and Jon laughs. It comes so easy now, too easy now. If it comes so easy, how can it be wrong?

“Just Ghost?”

“Just Ghost.” Those warm arms are around him, hold him close. “You told me, you wanted to go with me. Will you come now? Are you done with all this shit now?”

Jon breathes. There are no ghosts in his head, no strangers. There is the soft lull of the fire burning, the wine warming his belly, living arms around his chest and falling soft against the curve of his spine. There is here, there is this, there is the sound of Ghost’s soft pants behind him, the quiet, slow thump of his tail against the floorboards. There is the sound of the wind dying outside, the winter cold that brings the gentle promise of spring.

There is this. There is now.

“Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter @moringottos


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